She turned, lifting her gaze to the figure before her. The fox’s golden grin hid his expression, its curve subtle, knowing. Black silk framed his height, every line of him marked by the ease of one who leads without asking.
She inclined her head, placing her hand in his.
The music shifted, the steps beginning, and he drew her in.
“You are light on your feet,” he complimented as they fell into step.
She offered a coy tilt of her head, voice measured. “You are too kind.”
He spun her once, bringing her close, his breath warm against her temple. “I have been watching you.”
She did not falter. “How fortunate for me.”
The room spun around them, the gilded columns of the ballroom blurring as they turned, the faces of the masked dancers indistinct. But she saw what she needed.
The King had arrived.
A tall figure in white and gold, his mask shaped like a sunburst, the rays sharp and gleaming. He moved through the crowd, surrounded by his men, his presence commanding, effortless.
“The King,” Fox observed against her ear, his tone laced with admiration. “You must be honored to be in his presence this night.”
She turned her face, the edge of her lips curving beneath her mask. “More than you know.”
The dance continued, a gentle push and pull, bodies gliding and parting, the revel a sea of color and movement. The King had begun to greet his guests, pausing here and there to exchange words, nodding graciously, lifting goblets in recognition.
Ilys let her partner lead, let him twirl her, let the music fold over them like a tide. But her eyes never left the King’s presence. Every movement of the sovereign awoke a fresh anxiety in her limbs. When he stood, his guards following, that same anxiety drove her to abandon the dance prematurely. She was irrational.The entirety of her plan derailed before her eyes. She was eager for his blood. Childlike in her mission.
Ilys moved like a shadow, weaving between clusters of revelers, masked faces flickering past her peripheral as she followed the King’s retreat.
He walked calmly, too calmly, his hands folded behind his back, his golden robes trailing over the marble floors. His guards flanked him, their black-clad forms cutting through the revel like wolves through a flock, clearing a path through the confusion.
Ilys quickened her steps, her heart hammering against her ribs. He could not leave. Not yet.
A hand caught her wrist.
She moved on instinct, twisting, wrenching free, pivoting into a strike. Her elbow connected with the masked man’s throat—one of the guards. He stumbled back, choking, reaching for his blade.
More followed. She had been seen.
Ilys did not hesitate. She lunged, sweeping a blade from the folds of her gown, the silver glinting once before it found the nearest throat. A gurgle, a gasp, warmth spilling over her fingers, darkening the fine fabric of her gloves.
The next guard came fast, sword swinging. She ducked low, feeling the whistle of the blade part the air above her. She drove her dagger upward, catching the space between his ribs, twisting. His breath left him in a ragged exhale, and she let him drop, already turning to face the next.
Steel clashed.
She caught the edge of a saber against her dagger, the force of the blow vibrating up her arms. The guard loomed stronger, taller, but she moved faster. Dropping her weight, she drove a kick into his knee, sending him stumbling. His balance broke for half a breath—just enough. Her blade struck deep, tore free, and another enemy closed in.
A fist cracked against her jaw, white bursting behind her eyes. She reeled, tasting blood, her body lurching sideways.
A hand wrenched into her hair, dragging her back. Another caught her wrist, twisting her blade from her grasp.
No.
She struggled, wild and feral.
A blow to her ribs, the breath driven from her lungs. She kicked out, connected with a shin, and heard a grunt of pain. A shift in her grip, dagger slipping into her palm from the slit in her dress.
She plunged it blindly, feeling it sink deep.
